of my forlorn state on a Sunday that passed empty of my father, which felt like his having gone for ever.  My nursemaid came in to assist in settling Mrs. Waddy’s bonnet above the six crisp curls, and while they were about it I sat quiet, plucking now and then at the brown silk, partly to beg to go with it, partly in jealousy and love at the thought of its seeing him from whom I was so awfully separated.  Mrs. Waddy took fresh kisses off my lips, assuring me that my father would have them in twenty minutes, and I was to sit and count the time.  My nursemaid let her out.  I pretended to be absorbed in counting, till I saw Mrs. Waddy pass by the window.  My heart gave a leap of pain.  I found the street-door open and no one in the passage, and I ran out, thinking that Mrs. Waddy would be obliged to take me if she discovered me by her side in the street.

I was by no means disconcerted at not seeing her immediately.  Running on from one street to another, I took the turnings with unhesitating boldness, as if I had a destination in view.  I must have been out near an hour before I understood that Mrs. Waddy had eluded me; so I resolved to enjoy the shop-windows with the luxurious freedom of one whose speculations on those glorious things all up for show are no longer distracted by the run of time and a nursemaid.  Little more than a glance was enough, now that I knew I could stay as long as I liked.  If I stopped at all, it was rather to exhibit the bravado of liberty than to distinguish any particular shop with my preference:  all were equally beautiful; so were the carriages; so were the people.  Ladies frequently turned to look at me, perhaps because I had no covering on my head; but they did not interest me in the least.  I should have been willing to ask them or any one where the Peerage lived, only my mind was quite full, and I did not care.  I felt sure that a great deal of walking would ultimately bring me to St. Paul’s or Westminster Abbey; to anything else I was indifferent.

Toward sunset my frame was struck as with an arrow by the sensations of hunger on passing a cook’s-shop.  I faltered along, hoping to reach a second one, without knowing why I had dragged my limbs from the first.  There was a boy in ragged breeches, no taller than myself, standing tiptoe by the window of a very large and brilliant pastry-cook’s.  He persuaded me to go into the shop and ask for a cake.  I thought it perfectly natural to do so, being hungry; but when I reached the counter and felt the size of the shop, I was abashed, and had to repeat the nature of my petition twice to the young woman presiding there.

‘Give you a cake, little boy?’ she said.  ’We don’t give cakes, we sell them.’

‘Because I am hungry,’ said I, pursuing my request.

Another young woman came, laughing and shaking lots of ringlets.

‘Don’t you see he’s not a common boy? he doesn’t whine,’ she remarked, and handed me a stale bun, saying, ’Here, Master Charles, and you needn’t say thank you.’